


how can eyes so dark be so cold

by Zephine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: At least not really, Canon Era, M/M, Montparnasse is not an asshole yay, Montparnasse-centric, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, a bit angsty in the end, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28100247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zephine/pseuds/Zephine
Summary: "Would you kill yourself if I left you?"Prouvaire looked him straight in the eye, something he did not often, and held that strange, steady gaze for an uncomfortable while before answering."Probably"***Montparnasse seduces Jean Prouvaire to escape the poverty he was born in. A story about the life and love of a boy who wouldn't settle for less
Relationships: Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. gamin

***

He was born in the filthy depths of the gutter, in the dirty backyard of humanity that was Paris at the beginning of the much-acclaimed 19th century. Whoever set him into being did not bother to take care of him, neither his mother nor his father nor destiny or God. They had all given up on him sooner or later, rather sooner, and vanished back into the voids of persevering that made their existence. He wasn’t entirely sure if his parents had even made the effort to give him a name and if so; it was forgotten long before he had the chance to be called by it. 

So he named himself, years later, in a moment that seemed fitting, under a starless sky and for reasons he couldn’t remember later in his life. And he named himself Montparnasse.

He was born lonely, but he survived infancy, survived the cold winters freeze, the hunger, the plagues, survived what caused hundreds of thousands of deaths every day since the beginning of time. He was one in a Million who managed to do so and grew up to be one of a Million who did it. Street boys. Guttersnipes. Homeless Children, sleeping on the sidewalks, eating stolen bread in shelters not shielding the icy November wind. 

At the age of eight he spoke the same street slang and dressed in the same shabby rags as the other boys. His dark hair was greasy and stringy, with dry mud stuck on the strands from sleeping on the ground. A thin layer of dust covered his face, his feet were bare, his voice rough. Nobody could have told him apart from any other street kid. But still, Montparnasse was different. 

While all the other children somehow found their place in the complex network that was the Parisian gamin life, formed little groups with tough little leaders, and organized themselves within them, he preferred to stay by himself. Not like he never spoke to them or shared a meal, but he refused to be part of this formation, this hierarchy, where in the end he would only have to submit himself. He had never been an especially strong or loud child. But he was smart. He could do this all alone.

Montparnasse was born lonely, but unlike the others, he remained lonely.

***

His first kill was an ugly old man and a hasty reaction and a dull kitchen knife he carried with him to cut food off the market stalls. Later he wouldn’t remember what had gone wrong, but he got caught trying to steal something and there had been no way he could escape, sneak away and run as far as he could like he’d usually do. The monstrous shape of the man was towering above him and grabbed him by the neck. It was one of the first times he genuinely feared for his life and at that moment he was even wishing that he were part of one of these groups who got each other’s backs when the chips were down. But there’d be no one to come and save him, for nobody was caring about his life – but one. If everyone takes care of themselves, then everyone is taken care of after all.

So he drew the knife, movements unsteady and awkward, and let it cut the throat in front of him with one fast slash. Although the blade was blunt it glided smoothly through the fat flesh and he watched in horror as the blood splattered and the massive body sank to the ground. As soon as he felt the grip around his neck he started running, the knife still clasped tightly in his fist.

At the age of eleven he was a murderer.

After he ran for what felt like an eternity, deliberately chasing the darkest alleys and keeping himself stooping so nobody would see the drying blood on his clothes, he let himself sink at the shore of one of the Seines inflows. The sun was already setting and the sky was coloured beautifully in warm shades of orange and red, but the dark clouds remembered him of the blood on his shirt and that nearly made him throw up. He was exhausted. He was panicking. He was in pain. His breath was rattling in his lungs which seemed to be on fire and his bare feet were covered in blisters.

When he sat down he let his legs sink into the cold river water. It was freezing, but it did something to kill the pain and made him hiss of both relief and unease. His thoughts raced in his head and the world around him seemed an infinity away. He could feel the pain, the cold, the anguish. But it was strangely out of reach, not really tangible. After a moment he took his knife, took off his shirt, and dipped both into the water, watching as the dark stains of blood got washed away by the floods. And although he was trembling and shivering: With every wave carrying away the red streaks he got calmer, his anxious mind soothed until he was able to get a rational thought again.

He was sitting near a river mouth at dusk.

He wasn’t wearing his clothes anymore

He killed a man.

That last realisation hit him so hard he flinched and abruptly pulled back his hands to his chest. He killed this man. This man was dead now. And he lived. The knife in his hand fell to the ground.

over time he would more and more forget what exactly happened that evening. One day he would notice that he couldn’t remember the face of the man anymore or if it has been a rich man or a baker or a beggar like him. Later he would wonder whether he had cut the man’s throat or stabbed him. But he would never forget sitting at the shore and looking at the blade in front of him, becoming aware of the fact that he was alive - and his victim was not.

His victim. 

Somewhere inside his mind was a voice whispering that he should feel terrible. It was a murder – he had killed an innocent person. But when he was honest to himself; he felt oddly proud listening to his racing heartbeat and feeling the blood rushing through his fingers that clenched around the soaking chemise. He had won, he had survived and this was his merit alone. It was morally reprehensible, of course it was, but he did not feel any guilt. Kill or be killed, that was how life worked. And he was on the winning side.

***

That evening Montparnasse came to a decision.

The thought burned sharply through his head the moment he let his gaze slide down to his hands. They were porcelain white - the blood had faded due to the clenching and the cold water. For the first time in what felt like forever the thin layer of dust covering the back of his hands was gone, as well as the dirt under his nails. He had never thought about it before, considering it just a part of his body, like the constant nausea and hunger. But now he looked at his hands, his real hands, the bare skin of it. They almost seemed noble - pale, clean, with long fingers and rosy fingernails. 

Of course the hands were not the only thing bringing him to the following conclusion. It was not that he had never washed himself before or really considered himself a secret nobleman. But in the head of this child who just shortly before took another man’s life for the first time and was now sitting in the freezing breeze, shaking and distraught, it all came together to form a clear picture.

Montparnasse would never again consider himself one of them. 

That he swore to himself. He could do better than that, he could do everything. Didn’t he never quite had felt the same comradeship, the same bond as the other children? For him, there was no doubt that he did not belong there, in the gutter, with that filthy pack, the smell of decay surrounding him wherever he went. Montparnasse was different.

And he would do whatever it would take to prove that.


	2. thief

The first thing he had to do in order to escape that dirty rat hole of life was not to look like one of those beggars anymore. He washed every day, though in the winter his skin would turn an unhealthy pallor when bathing too long in the icy water, and combed his hair with his fingers until it sank to his shoulders in sleek dark curls. Also, he tried to get rid of the coarse clothes that fell to rags while he wore them. They were better ones to find, and he found them everywhere; hung up on clotheslines, exposed in shop windows, even worn by the dead bodies that lined the streets these days. Montparnasse knew no scruples anymore. Especially in the cold months, when hundreds of the poor succumbed to the freezing temperatures and the corpses would rot slowly, this method was highly lucrative. The garments he’d snatch would not be fine linen, but it was a start.

The next thing to do was not to behave like a street urchin anymore. Montparnasse frequented various public places and loitered the parks and boulevards to observe and imitate the behaviour of the bourgeois. He watched the old gentleman in their heavy coats, dawdling and vigorous, and the vain noble dandies with their prancing steps, and the timid young ladies, blushing when they turned to face them.

At the age of twelve, he didn’t look like a vagabond anymore. While all the children he had known were either dead by now or languished with no hope in their pathetic filth of a life he walked proudly, raised his head, dressed neatly, spoke softly. He had cast off the soul of a beggar and presented himself in the same way a craftsman’s or servant’s son would. What more was there to crave?

A lot.

***

At the age of thirteen, Montparnasse learned how to read.

He had made acquaintance with a young worker, a fan-maker named Feuilly, who was all too willing to help. An orphan and a former street child just like Montparnasse, he had managed to get employed at a factory and occupied a small room ever since that he paid for with almost his entire salary. He was a kind man, in his early twenties, averagely handsome and outstandingly dedicated. Not only had he taught himself how to read but was also interested in history and politics and never missed an opportunity to start a discussion about it.

Feuilly owned exactly three books: a tattered little bible (terribly abridged), a cheesy romance novel about a noble woman who had to marry a guy she only ever saw once before in her life, and an edition of Rousseau’s Social Contract. Montparnasse hated all three works in another way, but he pretended to be intrigued, just as he pretended to listen when Feuilly would start talking about the French Revolution, the partitions of Poland, the Napoleon wars and the age of enlightenment. Not that he didn’t understand, Feuilly made sure to explain every detail, it just pretty much bored him to no end. All that drivel of liberty, autonomy, nation, people - he knew people, people were scum. Often he wondered how a working-class man could believe in the figments of these rich philosophers who never actually met ‘the people’. But he remained silent. He needed Feuilly.

Montparnasse was a quick learner. Only a few months later, he read fluently and wrote most words without spelling mistakes. In the evenings they sat together and read to each other and during the day, before Feuilly came home from work, he practised writing by copying passages from the books.

They shared meals. They shared laughter. Some nights, when it was exceptionally cold outside and the wind whipped against the shutters, he was offered to stay overnight. Usually, he would sleep on the floor, but there were also times when the two of them shared the tiny bed that provided just enough space for them both. Feuilly never touched him - which was certainly no matter of course, living on the streets Montparnasse had seen many things at this point.

Still, he wasn’t entirely sure what exactly it was that drew Feuilly to him. Maybe he reminded him of himself, trying to escape the plight he was born into. But unlike him, Montparnasse wouldn’t settle for a decent life of honest work. Because for one thing, he just knew that these delicate hands of his were not made for hard work, and for the other thing… he wouldn’t have come that far only to stop there.

But as time went by, Feuilly urged him more and more often to find himself a place to work. He was old enough for most apprenticeships and a talented boy (something Feuilly emphasised a lot) and if that wouldn’t work out, he could still get a factory job anytime. Not that he suggested it maliciously; it was probably even meant to be encouraging. But for Montparnasse, who had never in his life felt the desire to earn a living honestly, it was a sign to move on. He had learned how to read, how to write, and how to express himself like he’d understand a word of what he was writing about, even the ideals of enlightenment. So he left Feuilly’s little room one day, without saying farewell, never to return.

***

As he grew older, Montparnasse noticed the gazes following him, the shy looks of the girls who lowered their heads as soon as their eyes met. They were young, probably about his age, walking the parks on their fathers’ arms or strolling alongside their governesses. He enjoyed teasing them. Whenever he felt a glance on him, he winked or gave a crooked smile to these girls, waiting for them to blush and look away. They were often pretty, seldom beautiful, and he forgot most of their faces as soon as he walked by.

At the age of 15, Montparnasse was barely a child anymore. He was of tall and slender stature and his fine features were beautiful, high cheekbones above a strong jawline. The clothes he wore were not exquisite, yet elegant, and he walked upright and smoothly, so his silky hair swayed with every movement. He was a handsome young man, and he knew it.

The first girl he shared a bed with was a prostitute named Pauline, and he knew her from sharing a loaf of bread when they were children. She had been a short and quiet little girl, now she looked miserable and tired and slept with strangers. That was the run of things. Not that he liked her very much or that they even had a romantic thing going, but she didn’t ask for any money after letting him into her bed, so he assumed that she was somewhat in love with him. She was about his age, maybe a little younger, and had that business going for quite a while. Wasn’t it weird that at a certain age girls became women, whereas boys remained children? It was no stunning act, but it shouldn’t be the last time either. There were many women to come, and he enjoyed seducing them as a pastime, testing how far he could go. Those silly little dolls were all too easy to wrap around the fingers, with their naïve ideas of love and romance. He had to admit; it pushed his ego, by a lot. 

It wasn’t for too long until he discovered his interest in men. He would get that tingling sensation when feeling their eyes following him, not out of envy or esteem, but of pure desire. He was aware that such orientations were frowned upon, to say the least, but down the gutter, nobody really cared. Why should you care about someone’s preferences, when you need to care about getting enough bread to feed your family? Montparnasse had seen by far more repugnant things, involving children even, and nobody gave a damn thing. The suspicion came over him that moral standards had merely been conceived to occupy the rich.

He met Pauline only once again, years later. She was standing in front of a tailor shop; waiting for customers, so it seemed. But something was off… Her hair was neatly parted and tied in the neck, and she wore a clean, modest dress with a muff. Her petite stature seemed to be lost in it. 

Nervous and unsettled the sound of her voice as she told him about her husband, who would return soon and his resultant need to go. It baffled him. This little whore with that backstory of hers had accomplished to bring someone to marry her, someone seemingly not too poor. It was amazing, for it meant two things: first, that she got substantially better in bed and second, that even a girl like her could seduce her way into relative prosperity.  
And what that little tart could do, he could do all the better.

***

Obviously, he didn’t want to marry a workman. But it appeared to him a welcome opportunity to gain another step out of his misery. All he had to do was tempting some nobleman into letting him taste a portion of his wealth. 

To attend anyone even remotely wealthy to him, Montparnasse had to dress more well-heeled. The few stolen mediocre clothes he kept reasonably clean were no longer good enough. He needed new, exquisite items, and he needed them tailor-made and bought. Montparnasse had the style, the attitude, but he didn’t yet have any money to make up a suitable match. So instead of ordinary pick-pocketing, he now had to get after the big deals. 

The most important instruments for that were a set of daggers he learned to use properly and a street gang called Patron-Minette. It was a motley crew, a strange composition of talents and tricks, but it worked out. There were three of them; a giant, a rabbit, and a ghost so he thought, and they were skeptical about letting a young boy like him join their robberies. But Montparnasse was convincing in words and deeds, and within one year that group was well known to the police. Their raids became more elaborate, their victims more prosperous, Montparnasse’s hats more fashionable. Things were starting to look better.

During that time he developed a fondness for knives. Perhaps, so he thought, it was because they had carried his first kill out. Now that his life was more dangerous than before, knowing how to defend himself was essential, and was there a method less violent, less dirty, than wielding a blade? Montparnasse got pretty good at it; he could throw little knives precisely in short distances or dispatch his victims with a fast cut before they had the chance to make a sound and without getting ugly splotches of blood on his shirt. 

There is no rule without exceptions, therefor of course it happened a few times that the situation got dicey and he only narrowly escaped. Sometimes, he had to admit, having allies was kind of helpful. Sometimes though, they didn’t help a thing in stopping an assailant from slashing his side and giving him an ugly scar he would carry on his waist ever since. 

While at night he was involved in criminal machinations, he feigned to live a noble life during the daytime. Feuilly’s books had been truly a stroke of good fortune, for now, he was proficient in both the Argot these crooks of the Patron-Minette would talk in and the genteel manner of speaking that allowed him to mingle with the rich without effort. Montparnasse owned quite a lot of customised frock coats and usually had lunch at the café Véfour. He didn't have a permanent residence, that would have been too risky. But he had everything else. Nobody questioned anything – that well-adapted he was to both of these entirely different environments.  
His life remained in that state for a few months. He met people. He made money. As a starting position, this was promising. The only thing missing at this point was the decisive aspect of actually making someone fall in love with him.

He shouldn’t wait for too long.

***


	3. lover

At the age of 19, he met Prouvaire.

Prouvaire was a young student, only slightly older than himself, and an easy target. The first time he saw him, he was having breakfast at the Café Procope, a cup of coffee forgotten in his hand. In front of him lay a paper, some notebook, in which he seemed completely absorbed, and his waistcoat, though of embroidered satin and therefore certainly expensive, was crumpled and messily buttoned. A poet without question.

Two things drew his attention: first, the shy way he lowered his eyes and tilted his head suggested he would be easy to wrap around one's finger. Second, he was not very good at hiding the fact that his gaze kept involuntarily wandering to Montparnasse, that he no longer knew how to concentrate on his note and was restlessly sipping his coffee.

He himself was sitting a few tables away. The previous night he had sat with Claquesous and discussed the distribution of tasks and profit-sharing for an upcoming raid. Afterwards he had slept well and decided to go and have breakfast. He had even bought a newspaper, but he wasn't particularly interested in it, so it lay on the table in front of him for decorative purposes only. He soon noticed Prouvaire's behaviour and took the chance.

When their eyes met for the first time, Prouvaire hastily looked in another direction and almost choked on his drink when he saw that Montparnasse was still staring at him when he glanced again. It was a scene amusing and pitiful at once, for one could see perfectly that the whole affair deeply abashed him. But even as he pretended to be suddenly engrossed in his journal, Montparnasse realised that he had made a perfect choice. That was to be it for this morning. He hurriedly finished his tea and beckoned the waitress to bring him the bill. 

The next day he came back, at the same hour, and was pleased to find that the young poet was there again. It could have been a coincidence, but Montparnasse had been to this café many times before and knew quite well that he didn't spend every morning there. He didn't do anything yet, he just sat down at the same table as the day before and flicked listlessly through his newspaper, looking over at Prouvaire a few times.

It was only on the third day that he decided to act, entered the establishment at the usual time, saw, to his delight, the boy sitting at his window seat and put on a cheerful expression. Then he turned aside, did not go over to his table as before, but walked straight towards Prouvaire, who, looking strained at a book, pretended not to have noticed him.

"Is this seat still free?"

***

Prouvaire was a remarkable young man, and in many ways. He was unspeakably rich, the only son of a noble family not entirely lost in importance and heir to the same. He studied in Paris, but originally he came from the south, and he did it not only to educate himself but also to feel the life of the common people for once. Very droll. His (in his opinion) modest flat was furnished with wallpaper in a delightful floral pattern and all kinds of bookshelves, and on the windowsill he had planted some flowers which he cultivated devotedly. When he felt like it, he played the flute, but mostly he wrote poetry or scribbled little drawings next to the poems in his books. He ate out for every meal. Just like the poor.

Besides his obviously unworldly worldview, he was also distinguished by the fact that he indulged in both the ideas of liberalism and the raptures of romanticism. He did not seem like a particularly political person, but he was a philanthropist and a thinker and believed in every utopia. He was a dreamer. His voice was mostly a purr, often a whisper, and rarely loud or forceful. When he spoke, he lowered his gaze, never looking somebody straight in the eye, almost as if he feared it.

What else? He dressed badly, extremely badly. One was never sure whether he did it on purpose or actually had no sense of style and etiquette. His hair was not long, but it went down to his shoulders and he tied it with a ribbon at the nape of his neck, in a way that was only just no longer fashionable. It was quickly apparent that he had no interest in women beyond weeping over their lot. He was obviously a virgin. Montparnasse should be fine with it. That made it almost ridiculously easy to charm him. 

It hardly took him a few days to fall for him. A wry smile here, a few lines from the social contract there. It almost seemed as if Prouvaire willingly threw himself into any romance, as if he would clutch at any straw, however short, that would enable him to get an actual real connection to his love poems. With each morning that Montparnasse was still beside him when he awoke, he shook off a little of his timidity, and with each evening that he returned, his looks became more blissful and eager. 

Montparnasse was content with himself. He slept in velvet linen, drank expensive wine, was showered with gifts and adored. All he had to do in return was to flirt with a young silly student and pretend to give a damn about his dreams and ideas. It was glorious.  
Of course, he didn't believe in it. Secretly, he hoped Prouvaire would eventually get away from these aberrations, in a few years perhaps, and take up his inheritance when he finished his studies. And take him with him. He just had to manage not to lose his fascination until then. He was optimistic about that, though.

***

"You're back!"

The joy in Prouvaire's voice was unmistakable. The last few nights had been turbulent, there had been a robbery to plan and carry out and almost get caught in the process, and he had remained in that disgusting hole in the sewers' outlets for a few days until the coast was more or less clear. After that, he had immediately visited the nearest public bathhouse, put on his fine clothes, and headed straight for Prouvaire's apartment. What he needed now was an expensive meal to satisfy his hunger and a rich mouth to kiss. Why did he even bother with this pack of crooks anymore?

"Perfectly well." he answered and waited until Prouvaire had crossed the distance between them with long strides and put his lips on his.

He had stopped asking where it had been or how he had got in some time ago. Montparnasse knew how to help himself. He could break open doors, steal the keys unnoticed, he had even climbed in through the window a time or two. What mattered to Prouvaire was that he was there at all. It had already been over two weeks since he had made off unannounced and it wasn't the first time. Montparnasse had business of his own to attend to, that for one thing, and beyond that he wanted to make himself scarce. One quickly loses interest in lapdogs who are always willingly waiting and spread their legs at any time.

"I had a feeling you would come today!" Prouvaire said as soon as their lips parted, a hint of excitement resonating in his voice. "Here, I have something for you."

Montparnasse brushed his hair out of his forehead, which had become disarranged during the effusive kiss, and looked at Prouvaire with a crooked smile as he took something out of the inside pocket of his jacket. It was a roundish shimmering thing, which on closer inspection turned out to be a small pocket watch. It was made of silver, with an ornate dial, and the inside was engraved with a rose blossom.

"It's beautiful."

"So are you."

Prouvaire gazed pensively into his eyes for a moment, but only held that eye contact for a few seconds. For a moment he was on the verge of saying something, perhaps a question about where he had been or a thought about the political happenings that had just occurred to him. But he remained silent. That should be fine with him. He didn't really enjoy listening to him talk, for he often lost himself in endless monologues about the sense and nonsense of this and the justice and injustice of that. Especially when he talked about the coming changes in society, Montparnasse preferred to keep him otherwise occupied.

"Did you miss me?"

To break the strange silence, Montparnasse pulled him into another, more intimate kiss, the pocket watch moving into his pocket in one fluid motion.

"I have," Prouvaire brought out between kisses "will you stay longer this time? We could go to the theatre or eat out." 

"If my commitments allow me,"

He still knew absolutely nothing about Montparnasse. He had tried to ask a few times, but only ever got evasive answers and eventually settled for that. But it was better that way. What could Montparnasse have said about himself? That he was a delinquent, a robber and murderer, someone who seduces others for their money? That would be just as foolish as telling him some far-fetched lie about being a student or wealthy. When truth is as unthinkable as untruth, one should keep silent.

Prouvaire tried hard to be indifferent to this. However, he often noticed the long thoughtful glances directed at him and the skepticism in his eyes when he once again flawlessly quoted from the Social Contract, right after pretending never to have heard of the Spirit of the Laws.

Once he had asked him about the scar on his torso and asked if it was a Schmiss, a mensural scar from academic fencing. Montparnasse had almost laughed out loud then, had his lips not been closed around a cock. He had known how to silence him quickly.

And that was exactly what he intended to do now. With just one movement of his hand, he unknotted Prouvaire's neckerchief, and with a second he ran one under his shirt so he could feel the fine muscle movements under the bare skin. His lover went for it greedily, melting under his hands like hot wax. As always. With just one movement of his hand he unknotted Prouvaire's neckerchief, and with a second he ran it under his shirt so he could feel the fine muscle movements under his bare skin. His lover went for it greedily, melting under his hands like hot wax each time. He had to admit, of all the potentially eligible men, Prouvaire was a welcome company in bed after all. What a stroke of luck Montparnasse had made with him.

"Later."

***

He startled, and in a reflexive move drew out the knife in his jacket pocket.

It took him a few seconds before he realised that there was no knife because he wasn't wearing a jacket, in fact he wasn't wearing anything at all and had been sleeping on Prouvaire's silky soft sheets. Half reassured, half exhausted, for he was still drunk with sleep, he let go a little in his tense state. There was no danger - what could threaten him with his lover? - but something had woken him. He looked around. 

There was light; a small candle flickered helplessly in the gust of wind that blew in through the open window. On impulse, Montparnasse pulled the blanket up to his chin. He had been used to the cold, still endured it, but lately, he had become spoilt. Sitting beside the candle at the desk, Prouvaire looked at him, puzzled, but quickly looked down when their eyes met. At his feet lay a cracked inkwell. So that had been it.

"What is it?"

Only now did Montparnasse realise that from the sudden movement he was still holding out his fist. He quickly lowered it and shifted a little, as if to hide the gesture.

"You're still up?" he deflected.

"I had an idea and I'm trying to write it down."

"In the middle of the night?"

A glance out the window was enough to tell that it must be well past midnight. The moon had long since wandered across the sky, leaving only a blackness that the few stars could no longer illuminate. 

"Thoughts do not sleep, my love." 

In Montparnasse's still half-dreaming mind, the word 'love' seemed out of place. He couldn't quite explain why, though, and so he decided not to think about it any further. 

Prouvaire, meanwhile, was about to close the window. He seemed sorry that he saw so few stars, for he sighed as he turned his gaze to the sky.

"I'm sorry I woke you, just go back to sleep."

He couldn't do that either, he was wide awake. A habit - no, a survival necessity! - of life on the streets was to avoid sleep, and thus vulnerability, as best as possible. So, now that it was less chilly, he stripped off the blanket and walked over to Prouvaire, taking a seat in the chair in front of the desk. 

"What was that idea you had?" he asked, yawning, not so much because he was actually interested as to keep himself occupied now that he was awake.

"Oh, a little something."

He started picking up the pieces of the bottle. It had been empty, written on empty. Like the fulminating conclusion of a thought, it had smashed sonorously into several rough pieces after the last stroke of the pen. A final chord, grande finale, applause.

Now he almost sounded like Prouvaire. What he had wanted to think was: thankfully it hadn't left a stain on the floorboards.

Lost in thought, he reached for the scrap of paper still lying on the desk. He skimmed it, interrupted himself, and started again, this time reciting aloud:

“We lived so merrily hidden away,  
Feeding on love's dear forbidden fruit.  
Swifter than aught that my lips could say  
Your heart replied, when your lips were mute."

"Give it back, it's not completed yet!"

Prouvaire scurried for the paper with the hand he wasn't holding the glass shards in, but he turned away quickly enough to keep it out of reach.

"Lamennais, Malebranche, forgotten they,  
And Plato too, mastered so carefully;  
But I fathomed God's infinity love one day  
In a flower, – the flower you gave to me "

"What kind of fun is this? Now give it back to me!"

"It's very good" Montparnasse replied "Flattering almost…  
I was your slave, you my subject were.  
Oh golden attic! To watch you pass  
Back and forth, dressing, at daybreak there,  
Your girl's face smiling fr-"

"That's enough!"

He had snatched the paper, tearing off a corner which now lay sad and meaningless in Montparnasse's hand.

"Girl face?" he asked mockingly, raising an eyebrow mock-accusingly. "What girl are you referring to?"

Almost ashamed, Prouvaire averted his eyes as he dropped the shards from his hand onto the tabletop. The poem had become a small crumpled misery in his fist.

"It's for the sake of lyric."

"You're not cheating on me, are you?" echoed Montparnasse with a grin, grabbing him by the wrists and pulling him towards him. Forced to look at him like that, he was uncomfortable with the position, so he sat down where the inkwell had been a moment ago and leaned his back against the desk.

"You know I would never."

That was true, of course. Prouvaire seemed hopelessly in love. Whenever he looked at him, heartfelt love resonated in his gaze, and exuberant joy when he saw him again after a long time, or when he woke up next to him. It was hard to imagine that this gaze could be directed at anyone else. With, perhaps, one exception: the stars.  
He probably had never looked at anyone like that before either. Montparnasse had noticed early on that he seemed to get most of his knowledge about love from novels and poems. Nevertheless, out of a curiosity, he asked.

"Have you ever? With a girl, I mean."

He earned a moment's silence for this question. Then Prouvaire looked up at him from his position on the floor and said "No."  
It seemed more like a question, as if he expected some kind of response, but when none followed he added  
"And you?"

Montparnasse nodded with a shrug, a gesture that was probably meant to mean something like 'these things just happen'. 

"Many?"

He wasn't really eager to talk about it, because he wanted to reveal as little of himself as possible. Besides, it kind of scratched at the image of two lovers with eyes only for each other, which he wanted to preserve for Prouvaire in any case.  
Moreover, what meant 'many'? - Three? Ten? Fifty? He would not have been able to say exactly how many there really were over the years, he had been too indifferent to the individual faces. So he made a sweeping hand gesture that could mean anything, but tended to mean something like 'perhaps'.

"And men?"

Prouvaire asked too many questions for his own good.

"Also, yes." so he replied, perhaps a touch too dismissively. "Listen, Jehan, they all meant nothing to me."

That was another thing: Prouvaire liked to be called Jehan. Actually, his name was Jean, a name that seemed too plump and featureless to him, though. Due to the endless study of the Middle Ages, it had become the word Jehan with an additional H. So be it. But it showed how gentle one had to be with him.

"And is it different with me?"

There was something sceptical in Prouvaire's gaze. Or perhaps something vulnerable masquerading as a curiosity. If he said something wrong now, he would surely be scolded, so he couldn't sound hypocritical.

"What do you think?" he finally asked with a grin, leaning forward to breathe a kiss on Prouvaire's lips. The latter did not turn away - a good sign. Finally, he felt a smile beneath his lips.

"I love you." whispered Prouvaire.

"And I you." Montparnasse lied.

That seemed to say it all. Slowly, his body remembered the tiredness that, for the late hour, should have overcome him long ago. He got up from his chair, yawned, and walked towards the bed again. 

"You should come too," he said to Prouvaire, but without turning to him. "And put out the light!"


	4. muse

It was February, it was Tuesday, it was half past four in the afternoon and that was unusual. Normally Montparnasse would sneak in in the middle of the night or in the evening, just before Prouvaire returned from his dubious meetings. This time, however, he passed the porter in broad daylight, walking straight through the front door. And however surprised Prouvaire must have been at this, Montparnasse was no less so at finding him there.

"Don't you have to be at the university?"

was the first thing he could think of saying when he saw him sitting there in front of him at his desk. He would have liked to say something more gallant, something witty, maybe a teasing comment about his appearance, but he was too tired for that. Slowly, he let the flat door slam shut and blinked a few times. Prouvaire was smoking a pipe, the entire room was full of smoke clouds.

"I'm not going today."

he got in reply. He barely looked up at him. Montparnasse should have been surprised at this lackadaisical greeting, but he was simply exhausted and the acrid smoke did its part. He went to a bowl of water sitting on a stool near the window and splashed some on his face, hoping it might wake him up. He hadn't slept in almost two days.

Outside, it was already dawning a little, though the sun wouldn't really set for a couple of hours. Inordinately annoyed by the dull light outside, he drew the curtains, turned away, and settled down on the nearby bed. As soon as he felt the soft mattress beneath his legs, he could have already sunk into a well-deserved sleep, but given that he hadn't seen Prouvaire for a few days, that seemed impolite to him. Not that he was actually concerned about his feelings, but he should at least pretend to be. 

If someone had asked him, which was obviously never the case, how he felt about the young student, he would probably have answered in much the same way as if he had been asked about his latest venture with Patron-Minette or his new frock coat. Prouvaire was a profitable business for him, no more, and no less. At least that was what he always told himself just before he strode through the door of his flat.

"Montparnasse," 

He turned his head in the direction from which he was addressed and attempted to smile. He didn't much like the way Prouvaire pronounced his name. He didn't much like his name either, if he was all honest. He had already scolded himself once or twice for not having given him a different name, something more inconspicuous - or more extravagant, more elegant, depending on what he had wanted to achieve. In the world of nocturnal crime, you put on a name like a coat, and took it off in the same way. Usually, you had a few of them hanging in your wardrobe. 

Instead, the name Montparnasse now stuck to him like the blood he associated with it stuck to his hands. He disliked it for several reasons. Because his lover addressed him in the same way the inspector in charge who would one day hand him over to the hangman would. Because it was such a carelessly chosen name that everyone immediately recognised as his own creation (Jesus, he hadn't even thought about whether it should be a first or last name!). And finally, because Prouvaire liked it, that dreamy little idiot who had no right to judge anything about him.

'Mont Parnasse was named after the Greek mountain with the same name, the home of the Muses and epitome of poetry' Prouvaire had once explained to him while watering the plants on his windowsill. ‘It was where the students used to come to recite poetry to each other' he continued 'Is that why you called yourself so?'  
Montparnasse hadn't known how to answer then and had made an expression that could have been both a yes and a no. He had been too surprised and ashamed to answer. Surprised that Prouvaire had seen through his false (false? He had no other.) identity so quickly. Ashamed because he had named himself not after a mythological paradise but after the cabarets and bars of the Boulevard he frequented so often. 

"Montparnasse" he was addressed again. He had probably been lost in thought. "How old are you?"

The question was so unexpected that Montparnasse opened his mouth a few times and closed it again in confusion before he could answer.

"Twenty." He finally said and, because it didn't sound particularly convincing, added "-three."

He looked over at Prouvaire, who was eyeing him strangely, for a moment longer and finally let himself fall back onto the blankets as the realisation hit him that this answer could not have been more stupid. What kind of a thoughtless answer was that to a question that asked a simple fact? He could have thought of something in advance or said nothing at all. But this pushing around would end up revealing that he didn't actually know.

Annoyed, he rubbed his eyes with his shirt sleeve and then squinted at Prouvaire. He was fixing his gaze on a spot somewhere behind the wall next to the bed. At the same time, he chewed absent-mindedly on a corner of his pen, which he had been holding motionlessly for some time. Something told Montparnasse that it wasn't tobacco he was smoking in his pipe.

"I think you're younger." He finally replied, chuckling, and dropped the pen to take another puff from his pipe. 

Perhaps by tomorrow, he would have forgotten all about it, Montparnasse thought, closing his eyes for a moment. The first dream images were already slipping behind his perception and a leaden heaviness chained itself to his eyelids. 

They had all been arrested, all of Patron-Minette, except him. Thénardier had proposed a lucrative deal and it had gone wrong, these things happened. But that all these people he thought were competent criminals had allowed themselves to be driven into the claws of the police so easily... Idiots, all of them.

It had taken him ages to scrub the soot they'd used to make their faces unrecognisable off his skin, and the whole thing had made no money, but at least he was still at large. He had also saved Éponine, though 'save' was not an accurate term. They had only talked a little, after all. A quick walk, from which he had hoped for who knows what, but which had at least resulted in them being out of the range of the inspection. And in the girl not confidently standing lookout, as she afterwards told him a hundred times. He didn't really know what upset her. Thénardier was, after all, a miserable father, at least as far as he could tell. And the hovel in which her family had lived was not much inferior to a night under the bridge. 

Éponine was a tough little thing, not pretty, but persistent and assertive. For months now he had been trying to wring a night out of her, but she just wouldn't budge. An entertaining pastime. And a welcome change from the all-too-easy lover that Prouvaire was. 

Prouvaire.  
As soon as he thought of him, he awoke from his doze. There was something strange about him today, wasn't there? He had to stop letting himself go like this. His attention span was shorter than Éponine's underskirt, and his mind also left something to be desired in terms of sharpness. After all, God knows he had spent nights sleepless before. No excuses.  
Whereas, perhaps the increasingly dense smoke did play its part in this strange tiredness.

"What are you smoking?"

His mouth had spoken those words almost of its own accord, and his sleepy mind responded by rising ponderously from the bed and taking the short distance between him and the desk with a few steps. Prouvaire sat there in a peculiar slouching posture that had nothing at all in common with his usually uptight, shy demeanour. 

"Want some?" asked Prouvaire, holding the pointed end of the pipe under his nose. 

With furrowed brows he accepted it, giving Prouvaire's grinning face a sceptical look. The drawn curtains had made the small room gloomy, even if it was still somewhat daytime outside. The clouds of smoke had not only become thicker, but also more shadowy. Montparnasse took a puff from his pipe and immediately afterwards broke into an unappealing cough, which his counterpart only noted with a smirk. Usually, he did not smoke.

To cover his cough, he reached for the open booklet lying on the desk in front of him. It was a collection of poems, written in a language he did not know, and Prouvaire had written a few lines of his own in pencil next to the printed texts. Although, no, if one looked more closely, it seemed as if he had begun to translate some of the poems. Many verses had remained unfinished or had gaps, but after some browsing around he was even able to find one that had been fully transcribed.

'Heinrich Heine' was written under the text, presumably the author, and next to it '1823'. Pushed to the edge of the page, Prouvaire had written his version just about legibly next to each line in his usual accurate, curved handwriting.

_Yes, you are wretched, and I'll not complain -  
My love, my love, wretched we both shall be.  
Until death breaks our hearts now sick with pain,  
My love, my love, wretched we both shall be._

____

_The scorn that twists your lips I well perceive,  
I see your eyes that flash defiantly,  
I see the pride that makes your bosom heave -  
And yet you're wretched, wretched indeed like me. _

______ _ _

___Out of the corner of his eye, Montparnasse could see Prouvaire shifting uneasily forward in his chair beside him, but he chose to ignore it. The last time he had tried to read some of his poetry, Prouvaire had rudely snatched it from his hand. He still wondered why. After all, to his knowledge, he had never made a secret of his writing.  
He took another puff from the pipe and read the last stanza._ _ _

_______ _ _ _

_Your mouth is drawn, by unseen pain begirt,  
Hid tears becloud your fair eyes' brilliancy.  
Your high proud bosom nurses its secret hurt -  
My love, my love, wretched we both shall be. ___

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____"What do you think of the poem?"_ _ _ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____Prouvaire had spoken the words softly and in a tone that was in the utmost neutral. Yet a strange feeling came over Montparnasse, as if he had been caught doing something forbidden. He stared helplessly at the letters in front of him for a few seconds before he put on a casual grin and turned to Prouvaire to take the pen from his hand._ _ _ _ _

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Yes, you are wretched, and I'll not condemn,  
Leviticus 20: their blood is upon them ___

______________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______he wrote in his far less elegant handwriting under the last line. He didn't know if that would count as an answer or if it was actually funny, but he laughed as if it was. Then he took one last puff from the pipe, put it down on the table along with the pen and walked over to the bed. He was still, even more so now, bone tired._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______And while his eyelids were falling shut, he heard Prouvaire laughing as well._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______***_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"...So in the end Werther shoots himself, realising that he will never be with the woman he loves."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Prouvaire looked at his reflection for a moment before turning his gaze a little to the right and looking expectantly at Montparnasse. The latter stood leaning against the wall a few paces behind him, and for some time now had been watching his lover's attempts to knot his neckerchief properly, which had been met with little success. Whenever he got too lost in his tales, his hands seemed to stop obeying him. It was cute to watch._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"And that's why you have to wear those silly yellow trousers?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______His grin was met with a pretend scolding look before Prouvaire continued with his lecture._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"You don't understand the significance of this novel. An entire generation at the time expressed their approval by dressing like Werther. The hopelessness of true love in this heartless world hit everyone, even Napoleon - he is said to have read the book seven times. Seven!"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"I thought you despised Napoleon."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Montparnasse knew that it pleased Prouvaire every time he made any sort of reference to his political fancies. He himself was involuntarily versed in all that concerned Bonaparte's effect on the power structure of Europe. Feuilly had not omitted the smallest detail. He hardly thought of the worker with whom he had once spent almost every day, but the Emperor had remained in his memory. If he had to make any kind of statement about Bonaparte, he would have to admit that he kind of had a positive attitude towards him. To have worked his way up from nothing, overthrown a government, crowned himself Emperor - that was indeed remarkable!_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"I do," Prouvaire replied, "but on this point I have to agree with him. Besides, I just wanted to underline what an immense effect this little story had on people at the time. Countless young men took their own lives after admitting their own misery by reading it. It was incredible."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"What's incredible is that you're indulging in a long-forgotten fashion just because a few people killed themselves fifty years ago," he retorted with a laugh._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"The message is timeless, and probably always will be, unfortunately."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Resignedly, Prouvaire untangled the kerchief from his neck and kneaded it hopelessly in his hands. He always dressed horribly, but after a while Montparnasse had lost interest in making fun of it._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Is that so?" he joked instead. "I doubt you'll ever cry after a married woman, my love, or is there something I've missed?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"No." Answered Prouvaire, fixing the pattern of the kerchief. "Perhaps not. But I suppose the tragedy of love affects everyone in some way."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______For a moment they were both silent. Montparnasse shifted his weight from one foot to the other, considering what to say next. He detested awkward silences almost as much as Prouvaire detested distasteful jokes. After a while, making it sound teasing, he asked_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Would you kill yourself if I left you?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Prouvaire looked him straight in the eye, something he did not often, and held that strange, steady gaze for an uncomfortable while before answering._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Probably."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______That eye contact lasted for just a few more seconds, as if he was looking for some kind of reaction in Montparnasse's expression, but he then quickly lowered his gaze back down to the cloth. Montparnasse did not really know what was being asked of him. A 'thank you' seemed as inappropriate to him as a 'please don't', because basically that was what he would expect. Nevertheless, Prouvaire seemed somehow disappointed, for he knotted the shawl tensely.  
Instead of an answer, he took a few steps forward until he was standing directly behind Prouvaire and took it from his hand._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Here, let me."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______With a few quick movements, he had looped the kerchief around his neck and tied it into a neat knot._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"And would you" Prouvaire asked back, in a voice so low it was close to a whisper, "kill yourself if I left you?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______‘You wouldn't’, he wanted to reply, but then dropped it. Obviously, his lover would be emotionally upset by such a thing and an arrogant comment would be out of place where he was hoping for an expression of love. Montparnasse tried wittiness instead._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"I think I would kill you." he replied with a grin, tugging the patterned cravat into place one last time before taking his hands off Prouvaire and returning to his previous position._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______At least he would have liked to, if he hadn't been held back with a surprisingly strong grip on his arm._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"That I do not doubt." affirmed Prouvaire. Following his gaze in the mirror, Montparnasse spotted a few tiny red dots on the hem of his cuffs - drops of blood, without question. He had probably not cleaned the shirt thoroughly enough. Or not killed his victim cleanly enough. The last thing he wanted to explain at that moment was his criminal activities. Not to him, not here, not now. Never.  
Lifting his gaze again, he met Prouvaire's questioning eyes. He had probably made a too surprised impression. _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"The wine." He only explained, his fake laugh failing. "How annoying. I'll have to borrow a shirt from you."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______***_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______In the following months, general unrest spread through Paris, which Montparnasse did not quite know how to classify. The workers in the streets were whispering more and more behind their hands, and student rallies were taking place in the parks and squares. He only noticed all this in passing, because workers and students were mostly as poor as he was and therefore poor to rob._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Patron-Minette was still in prison and so Montparnasse spent most of his time with Prouvaire, who, far more rewarding than minor pickpocketing, provided him with protection and shelter. However, he too showed an underlying excitement that seemed to have swept through all the students like a wave. He slept little, was often lost in thought, came home late, and when he rhapsodised about the ancient world, he would always emphasise its democracy rather than its mythology.  
Montparnasse was little bothered by this. These musings had never interested him much, and he usually listened with only half attention, whatever they were about. The time Prouvaire spent meeting with his secret little conspiratorial group he spent looking at his face in the mirror and he rarely asked what he had been up to all evening, since the answer would bore him anyway. Sometimes, when he felt like it, he compared the friends of the ABC to Patron-Minette and had to chuckle at the thought that before the law, both groups were criminals._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______However, the further spring turned into summer, the harder it became to ignore the changes. Prouvaire smoked more often than before and talked more emotionally about the misery in the world and the utopias he saw for the future. He was no longer easily distracted from it and became downright angry when Montparnasse tried to. Any joking about the revolt was met by a long, gloomy silence, and in the end, he had to realise that Prouvaire had by now subordinated almost everything, including himself, to the fight for freedom. Or whatever it was._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______One day in early summer, Montparnasse tried to remind him how in love he was supposed to be. Not out of jealousy, of course, but to establish how profitable the whole affair actually still was. He left the flat in the middle of the night and decided not to come back for a few days. Maybe Prouvaire would have his priorities in order by then._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______When he thought about it, he had actually become quite squeamish. Of course, it had always been his plan to get off the streets and no longer depend on all that he had learned there. However, it was always good to call on it and that had somehow slipped away from him in the last few months. Besides - he had always said this - people become boring when they become take-for-granted. It was a nuisance that Patron-Minette hadn't been around for so long. Thus, he had spent so much time with Prouvaire he had become as exciting to him as his potted plants. If anything._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______However, he really didn't live up to the reputation he had built up over the last few years. He had arranged for Patron-Minette to be freed from prison; he had even been able to aid Thénardier's escape with the help of little Gavroche. After a night of rain and panicked chasing through dark alleys, they were reunited. But Claquesous had seemingly vanished into thin air before he was imprisoned and there were no genuinely promising plans in sight. So, he was getting out of practice. Sleeping on the pavement felt all the harder because he had only slept in soft sheets for the last few weeks, and his senses were not quite as heightened as they used to be either. He robbed, more than anything to get better at it again, a couple old men, but was even overpowered by one and got away with nothing but a moral lecture and a few scratches. This disturbed him deeply. He told himself that it was not his fault, but that the man had simply been extraordinarily strong, but it still made him doubt himself a little. After this defeat, he decided to go back to Prouvaire._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______He was greeted with moderate euphoria._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"What happened to you?" Prouvaire asked as he entered the room. It was late, already getting dark, and Montparnasse hadn't actually expected to find him at home. On the one hand, that was gratifying, because he could interpret it into being concern for him that had kept him from going to his meetings. On the other hand, it put him at a loss to explain._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Nothing." he replied, somewhat perplexed at the surprising question. If Prouvaire hadn't been home, he would have had enough time to wash up and think of an excuse. Now he didn't know what to say. 'I wanted to sleep on the street for a bit'?_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______" Where have you been?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Nowhere"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"You look terrible!"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______He had spoken the last words with a mixture of anger and worry. Montparnasse took off his hat and coat and walked over to the man-sized mirror to examine himself in it. Even though the room was sparsely lit, he recognised his tousled hair, the dust on his rumpled clothes and the deep scratches that stretched across his cheek. He should have expected that; after all, they were hurting as hell._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"That's right." He simply commented, feverishly thinking of how to talk his way out of the situation. He decided to do it the usual way and put on a smile.  
"Did you miss me?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Prouvaire just looked at him in speechlessness. He remained in that posture for a few seconds with an unbelieving expression before sighing and turning his attention back to the papers on his desk._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Until just now I might have put it that way, but meanwhile I'm not so sure anymore."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Montparnasse tried to ignore the bitterness in his voice and watched his reflection turn his head sceptically to all sides. It wasn't even as bad as Prouvaire made it out to be. A few scratches where his face had scraped the floor, a little dirt, a few unravelled seams on his frock coat. That was annoying though, it had been expensive. But if he washed the dust out of the wounds, they would heal without leaving scars.  
He nested the cravat from his throat and went over to the wash bowl where he dipped it in to clean his wound. It was barely bleeding anymore, but still ached terribly with every touch. _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______A few minutes passed with neither of them saying anything. Prouvaire still stood bent over his notes. Whether they were poems, study materials or political diatribes, Montparnasse could not tell.  
He had stopped attending to the abrasions on his cheek and had begun unbuttoning his waistcoat. If he no longer wore a cravat, he could even so do without the rest of the dress formalities. He reached into his waistcoat pocket to take out his watch, touching a scrap of paper with his fingertips. When he looked at it more closely, he recognised in it the torn corner of the sheet on which Prouvaire's poem had been written and which he had so impetuously snatched from his hand. That scrap must have been lingering there in his waistcoat for months. How strange that it should have fallen into his hands again now of all times._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Why didn't you want me to read your poem?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______He had not lifted his eyes from the blurred lines, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Prouvaire raise his head and turn to him. It took him a few seconds to notice the snippet in Montparnasse's hand and to realise the meaning of his words. The expression on his face was surprised, as if he was flattered that he had kept the paper all this time. In fact, however, Montparnasse had already forgotten about it as soon as he had put it in his waistcoat and had only ever kept it there because he didn't know where else to put it.  
Before Prouvaire could say something flattered, he seemed to remember that he was in a bad mood._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Because you wouldn't understand."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______He laughed tonelessly and looked at the scrap in his hand. The ink was smudged beyond recognition. So indeed, he understood nothing._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Are you calling me stupid?" he asked, grinning._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"I call you ignorant." replied Prouvaire. "And stop grinning. It makes me sick."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Montparnasse's grin only widened, painfully stretching apart the scratches on his cheek._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Ignorant?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Yes, damn it." Prouvaire's voice pitch had changed from disappointed to annoyed. "I mean... whenever I try to talk to you about the things that matter to me, I just get a stupid joke or a mocking comment in return. Why would I want to bring anything to your attention that you just end up teasing me for. I'm tired of it. I feel like you don't want to listen to me at all. If you had a different opinion - well, that would be so. But you have nothing but ridicule for everything. You don't seem to have an opinion about anything, no real identity."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Montparnasse raised an eyebrow coquettishly and polished his pocket watch on the lining of his waistcoat. He had for quite some time sensed that he was offending Provaire with his indifference, but what was he supposed to do? Sure, he could - even though it was probably long too late for that - come up with some convictions. But it was hard to cover up the fact that he basically had no idea about anything. He knew a little about French politics, but what little he had remembered of Feuilly's lectures seemed incoherent and of no use as a real opinion. And not to mention poetry; he knew what a rhyme was, and that's where his expertise ended.  
Prouvaire would calm down again. He was not one to hold grudges for long._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Still, you're glad I'm back."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Montparnasse had hoped to end the subject with that, but Prouvaire only seemed further incited by it._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Back?" he repeated dismissively "Yes, back from where? You have the audacity to keep disappearing without a trace, sometimes for weeks, without a word about where you're going or what you're doing. And then come back like…this!” He pointed vaguely into the direction of his face. “I won't let you treat me like a fool any longer! I've tried to ignore it for so long and let you keep your little secrets, but I'm getting tired of it."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Jehan-" he tried to interrupt him, for the conversation was developing in a much more unpleasant direction, but Prouvaire's voice only became shriller._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"I mean, I basically don't know anything about you! I can't figure you out. One day you come in a new frock coat, the next day it's soaked in blood. First you don't even seem to know the language of my books, then you quote the Leviticus. You claim to love me, yet you have nothing but mockery for me. You reveal nothing about yourself and demand to know everything from me. You blaspheme God. You blaspheme freedom. You don't want to hear what I have to say, yet you keep coming back to me. What is this charade?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Jehan-"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"You are a mystery to me, Montparnasse - if that is your name at all! You have nothing to do all day and then you steal away at night. First, I thought you were cheating on me. Then I thought you had lost your mind. Then I noticed the knife, it's in your left tailcoat pocket. "_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Prouvaire!"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"No, now you listen to me!" he hissed. "I don't know what machinations you are engaged in, and I don't want to know. I don't care if you are a murderer or whatever. But I condemn the way you treat me. I condemn you. And I abhor the idea that I must love you nonetheless."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Prouvaire had moved away as he had spoken the last words, and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing away from him. It seemed to have taken all his strength to produce that monologue. Head lowered, hands clasped over his neck, he sat there as if Montparnasse had just been shouting at him and not the other way round._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______" Miserable man that I am! To see my heart so chained to you..."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Montparnasse stood speechless for a while. His thoughts were racing, but at the same time his mind seemed to go blank. He needed to think, to form a clear thought, but he wasn't able to.  
With slow steps, as if he were approaching a dangerous animal, he walked over to Prouvaire and put a hand on his shoulder. He did not know what this gesture was supposed to mean himself, but at least it was tolerated.  
Prouvaire was still looking at the top of his shoes. Under his hand, Montparnasse could feel his heavy breathing, as if he would start crying or lashing out at any moment. Instead, his tension discharged in a short, bitter laugh._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Yes, good," he said seriously, with a composed tone that seemed almost threatening, "calm me down. Comfort me. Say something flattering to me and kiss me until I forget what I was so upset about. Then we won't mention any of this ever again."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______He stood up, slowly so as not to seem dismissive, and looked at Montparnasse with a strange coldness. In the dim light it was difficult to interpret his gaze, but to him, it was as if his eyes were reddened._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"I'm willing to do that. Just tell me one thing first, Montparnasse: what is it you really want from me? Is it money? You can have everything. Someone to keep your bed warm? Go ahead and fuck me, you know I'd beg you to do it. So what's the reason you're here? And don't say love. Just for once, be honest and tell me!"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______The strange matter-of-factness with which he had said these words sent a shiver down Montparnasse's spine. He couldn't quite work out why himself. Perhaps he should just be honest. He would probably be allowed to continue staying here, living off Prouvaire's money, and no longer be part of this scum that formed his origin. Maybe if he told him the whole truth, he would even have pity; he wouldn't put it past him. He would basically have reached his goal without having to keep up the hypocrisy of that love any longer.  
But something in him would not allow that._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"I won't."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______No sooner had he whispered the words than he turned and took his hat and coat from the clothes rack. He dared not look Prouvaire in the eye again. He could not have said what he was afraid of, but he was overcome by a panic he had never experienced in his life. He had to get away from here, fast.  
He did not stop to put on his waistcoat and cravat. Barely a few steps separated him from the door, and he crossed the distance in no time. His hand already on the door handle, he heard Prouvaire say behind him._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Go ahead and leave. You are free to go. You take all liberties as usual, don't you? After all, man is born free."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"And everywhere he is in chains." Montparnasse completed._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Then he disappeared into the night._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	5. bereaved

He knew that Prouvaire was dead from the second the first shots were fired. 

The strange mood that had taken hold of Paris had become more and more intense over the last few days and finally culminated in a riot that could no longer be ignored. Nervous men became enraged men, and enraged men became furious. Volleys of gunfire came over the city like an explosion ignited by a single spark - a funeral procession, ironic as that might seem in the face of this pointless operation.  
They had laid Lamarque to rest. Montparnasse had never heard that name before.

On that fateful day when the scum of Paris had joined the revolt, he was in one of the inconspicuous side streets that were not wide enough for the masses of rioters and so remained relatively empty. He was just on his way to lunch, for his money would last for a hot meal or two and he had already been on his feet for a couple of hours. Montparnasse hadn't been up for too late these past days, because neither had Patron-Minette planned any significant nighttime activities, nor did he know what else to do. Prouvaire he hadn't seen since their argument.  
So as he walked along, habitually avoiding the major streets, he thought about the last few days. He had eaten little but decently and slept badly. Claquesous was still nowhere to be found. Two days ago he and Thénardier had tried to commit a burglary, but his daughter had stopped them. Lousy little bitch. Montparnasse had longed to kill her for it, or at least beat her up properly, but that might just have been general anger talking. For several days this strange, stifling mood was seething inside him.  
Now he was hungry and a little too well-rested and needed something to take his mind off himself.

As soon as he turned the corner to choose one of the cafés on the boulevard, in an outrageously coincidental moment, as a signal tone for the abrupt change in his day and perhaps his life, the first shot of the day fired.  
It took him barely the blink of an eye to turn on his heel and march in the opposite direction, straight towards Prouvaire's apartment.

***

He was hardly surprised that Prouvaire was not there.

Basically, the last few weeks had been one grand announcement of that. Montparnasse had hardly ever listened more closely when he had spoken of his plans to overthrow the government (- perhaps he should regret that now, but he did nothing of that sort.), but at least enough to know that Prouvaire would be there at any uprising. And if he were going to be there, he would be as good as dead.  
Still, he had travelled the short familiar distance, which now seemed eternally long, with an oppressive feeling that he had hoped would somehow be dispelled by the fact that he would find his lover at home. Hunched over his desk or just out of bed after a too-long evening with his friends. He would be given a nasty glare, with a half-feigned, half-still-scowling tug around the corners of his mouth, and some disparaging comment.  
'You’re not supposed to be here anymore' or 'What do you want this time?'  
Then he would spontaneously think of a remark that would infuriate Prouvaire and leave before doing any more damage - shaking his head as to why he had come in the first place.

This was not the case.  
When he quietly opened the door to the flat, he found it unlocked and the room empty. With each step he took further into the deserted room, the queasy feeling turned more into what he assumed must be either dismay or naked fear. His stomach tightened, his fingers went numb and a tremor ran from his wrists down his spine, followed by icy goosebumps.  
Prouvaire was gone. His jacket no longer hung on the hook and the place where his shoes should be showed bare planks. Only his battered hat stood lonely guard.  
Prouvaire was gone. The bed was neatly made, the pillows fluffed. On the little table next to it, the forgotten pocket watch waited for its owner. The engraved rose bloomed reproachfully. Prouvaire was gone. The curtains were not drawn. The June sun ruined any bad mood. On the window ledge, the potted plants still beckoned to their owner. The flowers among them bloomed intrepidly. Soon they would have faded. Prouvaire was gone.  
On the bookshelf, books stood immaculately side by side in dreadful neatness, as if to pull one out would be destroying a work of art. They invited you to do it. No book lay on the ledge, the bed, the little table, Prouvaire was gone.  
Only something lay on the desk. It was not a book.

The blood froze in his veins. Consternation turned to numbness.  
Any thought that Prouvaire might not have mingled with the revolutionaries after all, instead could simply be out for a few hours, for a walk or lunch, and be back again soon, crumbled to ashes. He had put it there, not just left it, so that the next person who entered the room would find it. And that would be Montparnasse. That he had known.

In the centre of the desk was a porcelain tobacco jar of astonishing size, decorated with a delightful pattern that didn't interest Montparnasse a jot. Leaning against the box was a letter, a piece of paper folded twice, without an addressee. It didn't need one.

Montparnasse approached the table with an instinctive caution, as if something threatening might leap out of the porcelain box at any moment, and perhaps it would. With shaky hands he reached for the paper, stopped, grabbed the lid of the box instead, and immediately dropped it again. It was cold, as were his fingertips, and this realisation made him hesitate for a moment.  
He was nervous. Why was he nervous?  
With a decisive gesture, he reached out for the paper and unfolded it briskly as he sat down on the chair near the desk. There it was, Prouvaire's sinuous handwriting, black curves on a not-quite-white background. For a few seconds, his eyes simply roamed over the lines without reading, as if he feared not being able to undo what he had once perceived.

But that was silly. Prouvaire might be a dead man, but that would not make his turgid words any less boring or his expressions of love or hate any more moving. And so he began to read.

***

_Montparnasse,_

_so this is how I begin. I have thought long and hard about what might be an appropriate beginning to this letter, but what introduction befits such an occasion, what salutation justifies what I have to say? I would like to ask for your forgiveness in advance for having to read this. At the same time, I wish it with all my heart. Because it means that you will actually come, actually stand here where I am now sitting in the darkness of the setting sun, and actually take the time to read my words. In spite of everything that happened._

_I also want to ask your forgiveness for what I said to you the other day. It's not true. I don't condemn you. And I don't abhor loving you. What is man supposed to do in life if not to love? Why else, Good Lord, am I guest of this eternal world? Loving always means suffering, which is commonly known, and I have now experienced and understood that. My suffering consisted in having to entrust you to the veil of uncertainty in which you shrouded yourself, but this is up to you. Only it is sad that we had to part like this.  
I blame myself and tell myself that I was in a state of turmoil because of my oncoming death. Is that the only reason I scolded you? - possible. I don't know if you took it to heart, you didn't seem upset, just oddly changed perhaps.  
What I actually wanted to say that evening was nothing but this: How can eyes so dark be so cold? _

_But no more of that! Let's not think of it any further!_

_While I sincerely hope that my words may touch you in some way, I realise that you may not be quite as fond of me as you pretended to be. That is an imputation, but not too far-fetched, I would think. If you are here for the sole purpose of grabbing your belongings and perhaps some of mine, I have the following for you to hear:  
In anticipation of my imminent death, and considering the assets to which I am entitled, I had planned to have you included in my testament. I would probably put my poor mother in the grave my father is turning over in, yet it would be worth it, I think.  
But alas! - neither am I twenty-five and able to dispose of my inheritance as I please, nor would I know what name to submit to the notary. Montparnasse - is that your name? I wouldn't want to vouch for that, and you hardly seem certain about it yourself. Do you have papers? An address? All this is unknown to me.  
So this is what I did: This morning, on the fourth of June, at about a quarter past nine, I went to the Rue de la Vrielliere, into the bank building, and had my there deposited personal fortune paid out to me in cash. Thirty thousand francs. Of course, the banker looked puzzled, and admittedly I didn't find the idea of carrying around all those fancy banknotes very appealing either, but anyway. That thirty thousand are yours. They're in the porcelain box on the table, as you will have noticed. Some of it in coins, since paper notes get so often rejected. _

_What am I talking about? - Of paper money when I want to speak of love. Or suchlike. My head is whirling, I am all confused. Please forgive me. I wish you were with me right now. I wish you'd come back after all._

_I'm scared Montparnasse, I am. Let's be honest with each other; I am not a man of skill, have never fired a gun - although I have had some lessons in épée fencing. But what is trick fencing against cannons? I will not survive tomorrow night, and that idea frightens me. And it frightens me that you are not here with me to give me comfort.  
Do you know that I'm going to die?_

_Do you care?_

_My hand is shaking as I write and the ink is smudging, but I am not starting over. What needed to be said is said and that's that. So what else? I don't know what more to say. Me, who wrote so many inkwells empty, I am at a loss for words.  
Thus, I would like to end with a quote that occurs to me - you will know it, since you seem to be a friend of Rousseau: To write a good love letter, you ought to begin without knowing what you mean to say, and to finish without knowing what you have written. And that's what it is after all; a love letter.  
Isn't it?_

_In faithful devotion,  
Cordially,  
Jehan Prouvaire_

_post scriptum: It is good that you are absent. You would probably prevent me from joining the fights and that would be all wrong. What must be done, must be done. I would give my life again and again for the cause. I believe in what is true, good, and beautiful. I die in hope for a brighter future._

_post post scriptum: I do not want to frighten you. Whether you would mourn my death I do not know, but in case you do: do not grieve me. Our fate is in God's hands alone. It is quite possible that I shall return unharmed from the barricades and in a few days shall see the new, more glorious France. Then you would have wept in vain. And I would have written in vain - No! It is right that I could tell you all of this. Whatever is to come. Let us hope for the best; I long devotedly for our reunion. Adieu! ___

__

__***_ _

__

__

__Montparnasse let the letter fall to the floor. His breath was faltering even more than before and it was only with an immense effort that he managed to get up from the chair and, leaning on the table, lift the porcelain lid with shaky hands._ _

__There they were.  
Thirty thousand francs, rolled up into little bundles.  
For a moment he could only stare at them in disbelief, the tabletop beneath his palms the only thing keeping him somewhat upright. His mind raced.  
Those were his thirty thousand francs. Those were Prouvaire's thirty thousand francs. Prouvaire was dead. He had never seen so much money. Was it real? What could it buy? Thirty thousand francs. Prouvaire would buy books. Prouvaire was dead. A new frock coat. No. An estate in Paris. Outside Paris. Outside France. No. Prouvaire was dead. One ticket overseas and off he goes. No. Prouvaire's books for sale. Nonsense. Prouvaire was dead. Rob him. No. Thirty thousand francs. A new underskirt for Éponine. Nonsense. New identity. Everything new, house, clothes, name, city, shoes, pocket watch. No. He already had a pocket watch. Prouvaire was dead._ _

__In a moment of sheer madness that took hold of him for a split second, he grabbed the box and threw it to the floor with the force of rage. A clattering sound - immediately it shattered into thousands of shards. The bundles of money along with loose coins lay scattered across the floor._ _

__That short clang had been enough to bring him out of his daze. Exhausted by all that madness, he sank to the floor amidst the shards, face in his hands. Was he crying? No. Montparnasse remained in a state of exhausted numbness, just awake enough to hear his rasping breath, just blacked out enough to lose all sense of time.  
And so the hours passed._ _

__

__***_ _

__

__When he released himself from his paralysed posture, darkness had already fallen._ _

__The distant gunshots from the surrounding streets had not been able to disturb him any more than the roaring in his ears or his racing heartbeat. By now he had calmed down. His hands were no longer shaking, his fingertips were no longer numb and cold, and even the heavy emotions he couldn't explain had subsided._ _

__Slowly, he loosened his arms from his knees and raised his head. There were no stars outside the window (the air was thick with smoke from the spilled powder) and for a moment he caught himself thinking of Prouvaire's disappointed expression at starless night skies. Montparnasse shook his head. He rose languidly and strode to the window, careful not to step in the shards lying on the floor. Little could be seen of the outside world. The flowers on the window, which earlier held their heads proudly, had folded their petals. Just like him.  
A candle should be lit, it flashed through his mind, and he fetched a box of matches from the desk drawer. Once lit, the room seemed even more haunted than before. The curtains threw eerie shadows on the unusually neat bedroom, the accurately arranged books on the shelf reminded of army formations. Montparnasse had no ill will to tear down the whole damned piece of furniture - but, ah, what for?_ _

__Perhaps he should sleep for a while. It had to be nearly midnight, or even later, but he wasn't the least bit tired. What exactly was keeping him awake, he didn't know. The worry? The grief? Was Prouvaire even still alive?  
A bitter tug played around the corners of his mouth. 'It is quite possible that I will return unharmed from the barricades' - That Prouvaire had written to him. Fool! Presumably didn't believe it himself. Most certainly he was already lying somewhere lifeless on the ground, the light in his closed eyes extinguished, in consequence of his always lowered gaze.  
For a moment he tried to remember how boldly and firmly he had glared at him that evening. Frosty. Angry. It was hard to put into words. But the more he tried to picture it, the more the image slipped from his mind. The less he remembered the words that had hit him so unexpectedly hard.  
It was probably for the best._ _

__

__He should leave. What was keeping him here? Prouvaire would not return and even if he did, he had left him the thirty thousand. So grab the money and run!  
But he couldn't. Even looking at the black printed notes made him nauseous. He fixed his gaze on the candle until green spots appeared behind his eyelids. There was no way he could accept this money. It was wrong. It was downright disgusting. Offensive. Outrageous. To hand over so much money to him. To fob him off with it, like a whore. Was that his monetary value? Thirty thousand? That' all? And then just disappear. Leave him. After all the fuss about love, about eternal attachment, about loyal devotion - oh, to hell with it! Thirty thousand is what love is worth. _ _

__He had left him.  
And Montparnasse couldn't even kill him for that, as he had sworn he would._ _

__A single tear ran down his cheek._ _

__

__***_ _

__

__

__The whole affair was soon over. The next day, around noon, the first troops went out to clean the streets, first of the fallen one's dead bodies, then of the rain-washed blood._ _

__Montparnasse had not slept. He had read through Prouvaire's letter to the dozen. Incredulously at first, almost wistfully later. When he had internalised the wording, he'd lit the paper on the low-burning candle and let it burn out in the washbasin. That had been in the early hours of the morning.  
Now it was already past midday and the hustle and bustle that had quickly returned to Paris jolted him out of his stupor like someone slowly waking up from a fever dream. He was hungry, plus exhausted. He was still wearing his coat, in which he had entered the apartment the previous day. Now he was tired of the room and all the melancholy that came with it. What exactly had he been so upset about?_ _

__What had got into him, he couldn't quite tell himself. It wasn't that he mourned Prouvaire's death. He hadn't loved him, and his financial situation no longer depended on his patronage either. That love-struck fool had left him his entire fortune. Ridiculous. Ridiculous and foolish, but he wouldn't complain.  
While he picked up the banknotes lying on the ground, he decided to figure out what to do with the money later on. For now, he put it as discreetly as possible into the pockets of his waistcoat, trousers, and frock coat, along with his pocket watch. What else? Prouvaire owned little of value, but why bother stealing when you have more than enough?  
So, let's get out of this house of mourning and get some nice hot lunch first. He would dine royally, festively, for thirty thousand francs and more.  
And then move on._ _

__

__Adieu, Jehan._ _

__

__*_ _

__

__Notabene:  
Later, Montparnasse will realise that Éponine is dead. He will realise that Claqueous is dead. He will realise that he doesn't mind.  
Whether Prouvaire might really have come back, survived the fighting, by some miracle not died for his ideals, and smilingly swept up the broken tobacco tin on his floor - Montparnasse will never know for sure. He will decide that he doesn't mind that either.  
What can be said with certainty is but this: Prouvaire's bookshelf showed a gap on the evening of the sixth of June where his copy of 'Les Souffrances du jeune Werther' had previously stood.  
And that at the age of 20, Montparnasse finally escaped his past._ _


End file.
